At What Cost
by ss10009
Summary: Near a century after the defeat of Voldemort, Harry recalls the war and the price he had to pay to win it. Not Deathly Hallows compatible!


**I was in a crappy mood so I wrote angst. Be happy. If that's possible by the fic's end.  
Rating: T / PG-13 because of it's darker mood and frequent mentioning of death and suicide.  
Genre: Angst, Drama...the usual memorial genre shit. Oh yes, and to contribute to the rating, pretty much the only swear is riiight in the genre description here.  
Oh yes, Harry Potter belongs to J. K. Rowling and I doubt she'd do this to her characters anyway...**

**AT WHAT COST**

The pain seared through the old wound for one last time. As it would certainly be the last.  
The lightning bolt shaped scar on his forehead, which had once showed brightly, almost magnificently if it were possible for such a dark imprint, began to fade away.  
He was dying.  
And no one remembered him.  
"Our great hero!" "Our saviour!"  
The compliments had poured in as the recognition did as well. International and forever fame.  
But no one remembered him now.

"Hello, Mr. Potter," said the bright woman.  
She was the highlight of the day. He sat in St. Mungo's day after day... The only thing to remind him of his past life was the redheaded nurse with the brown eyes. She reminded him of something. Perhaps someone... It was truly both. Both Ginevra Molly Weasley and regret came to him. He shouldn't have said goodbye... He wouldn't have said goodbye if he knew it would be the last time that he would speak to her. He would've told her more. But no one ever seems to know that the one of the people in your life that you love the most will be dead before you see them again.  
Some days he called the nurse Ginny. He'd been senile before. It wasn't rare.

"You're getting weaker now," she said, laying a comforting hand on his arm, "We don't know how long you've got left..."  
He'd been weaker many years ago.  
If he'd been stronger than they wouldn't all be gone now.  
If he'd been stronger than maybe someone besides him would be here now. Saying words of comfort or giving him a quick prayer. But they were all gone.  
If he'd been stronger he wouldn't even be here... he'd be out living a normal life with the ungrateful world around him. Occasionally, he'd get an old, wheezy visitor. They were usually younger than him. But they'd stop by the long term to say that they knew someone who was gone because of the somewhat ancient battle of Voldemort and that they wanted to thank him. But that hadn't come for years. The thought that he would convert his heavy thoughts to words—stories—was long forgotten.

"But you're a great man, Mr. Potter," the nurse said, seemingly deep in thought, "My great grandmother...before she passed...she said that you were a good person. I pray you rest in peace."  
If he'd had the energy to smile, he would've given her his last.  
He heard her call for a healer before he blacked away. Lost into his thoughts...and a coma.

The infamous final battle had been over a century ago. Back when the deaths of his headmaster, his godfather, and Cedric Diggery had plagued his subconscious mind. Now, the voices of those he should've saved haunted him. He'd rather himself dead than alive right now. The shame and grief wracked over his body at some nights. But he couldn't cry, he didn't have the energy to. Years ago, before he'd been put into critical condition, he'd broken down time after time. But now crying was childish and pointless. A few measly tears wouldn't bring them all back. It wouldn't turn back to the handles of time. Plots of sneaking in to the Department of Mysteries and stealing a time turner invaded him, but it was always too little, too late.

He wondered if this was what Sirius had felt like. When he was confined to his cell as Harry was confined to his bed... Did he think about the better days of the past when he'd hung around his father, his previous and dead professor Remus Lupin, and the also has been traitor. Back then he'd had childish dreams and what-if's about a day when Sirius would have never given up his position as secret keeper. But hopes were immature now and long gone. ...There is no sadder sight than a young pessimist, besides an old optimist." Mark Twain had said that. It sounded like something Hermione would quote. Hermione. Damnit...he hadn't meant to think of that. Remus—calling him Professor Lupin seemed to sentimental of the single year the excellent man had spent at his school, besides, he'd lived to a greater age than the werewolf had anyway—was probably someone that Sirius had referred to about quotes. He always seemed to speak of Remus as his most intelligent friend, not that it surprised him.

He wondered if this was the same feeling that the order members, along with the other massacred innocents, thought when their end had neared. Was it the same helpless feeling of being backed into a corner...  
Defenseless, wandless...he'd watched them fall as he'd been forced to continue pursuit of Voldemort. But Voldemort, the one who had caused the pain of so many, had had a short, sweet death at his hand. It was as if it were another, unfortunately ordinary, homicide. He'd fallen to the ground... His hoarcruxes vanished. A brief, panging flash of light. The darkest evil was gone. Yet, with his brief demise, Harry had felt more pain than he had. He'd been able to live on his own for several months. That was the bliss period for the wizarding world. He was never alone. Never isolated with his thoughts. But they were all gone. Everyone in his class, everyone that mattered. The order. Diminished into one, himself, in the course of just a few years. Despite their efforts, not everyone could be happy. But it was the larger whole that mattered...right?

He shouldn't be dying like this. It should've been dramatic, sudden, filled with action. He should've gone down fighting like Sirius.  
That's the way everyone in the Order left. In fights. Aside from Remus, who was fortunate to have lived without complication from his transformations as long as he'd done. They had died on the battlefield, carried back by anyone strong enough to hold their own and one other. He'd never left strong. He'd always been weak. To weak to pursue a murdered. Although he saw so many go down in his honor, for his sake. Because he was the boy who lived. If he didn't kill Voldemort, no one ever would...  
But he didn't...Harry James Potter—the name sounded so grand, made him feel young to refer to someone that had been lucky enough to die in their prime instead of at an old age—was lying here in a hospital bed, waiting him for the supernatural to whisk him away.

He felt them. He heard them.  
They were there, waiting for him on the other sides.  
"Harry!" they cheered. They wanted him there. Maybe they'd forgiven him for letting them down.  
And suddenly, he saw their faces slide into view.  
But before he could make them more clear, grasp them, embrace them, apologize in hopes they'd forgive him for letting them die...they were gone.

"We saved him," announced one healer, clearly proud of his work, "He may be a little unresponsive for a bit but we've got him."

"Aren't you lucky, Mr. Potter," the assistant healer said, he could feel her happy smile, "You're just a miracle you know. A hero lives on."

So they'd saved him again. They'd allowed him to live and never join the people he loved most.  
They would call him a hero again...

And he would live with the memories, the haunting tales of how he'd saved the world. Of how he'd let the wizarding and muggle worlds alike show their faces and not fear to return to the public. He would allow the world happiness.

Harry had saved the wizarding world...but he'd never saved himself. He slipped into depression more than occasionally. The healing staff often had to stop him from attempting to kill himself. It wasn't fair...but at the same time it was right. The life he'd deserved...never once had it been given to him.

So he'd saved the world...but at what cost?

**Review please.**


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